


Dragon Rising

by Nogaro



Series: Skyrim Reborn [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Fantasy - Fandom, The Elder Scrolls: Legends
Genre: Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nogaro/pseuds/Nogaro
Summary: Experience the story of Skyrim like never before, through the eyes of not only the Dragonborn, but of multiple characters. If you're a fan of the game and, like me, created many unique characters to role play the plethora of quests and story lines available, you may have imagined a universe where all those characters co-existed, each with their own distinct backgrounds, motivations, and destiny. This is that universe.
Series: Skyrim Reborn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106912





	Dragon Rising

As the morning light peeked through the tree tops, Peer knelt and traced his fingers lightly around the edges of the footprint, glancing in the direction it indicated the elk was traveling.   
"This is fresh. We're closer than we thought," he whispered.  
His father knelt down beside him to inspect the track as well and then spoke in hushed tones.  
"There's a rock face ahead that runs across this path. It will have to turn either north or south. What's the plan?"  
Tyr was a man of extensive experience, veteran Legionnaire, and an accomplished hunter, but it had been his practice for a great many years to make his son think through the choices before him and take action. At nearly 25 years of age, Peer was well accustomed to his father's prompts.  
"We split. It is likely going to the stream to the north and the breeze is in our favor. You flank to the south and drive it to me."  
"So, you get the kill...again?" Tyr asked with a slight cock of his head and a raised eyebrow. "Am I not the better marksman, father?" Peer replied with a broad grin, unshouldering his bow and readying to move.  
"Well, get on with it," Tyr commanded, and they both launched forward.  
The two men were Nords, with tall and athletic builds, both with shoulder length brown hair. Peer had a thick beard, but Tyr never had more than a few days stubble. Seeing his father shave with soap and dagger had always entranced Peer, but he didn't have the patience for the ritual himself, nor did he see the point. Peer had inherited his father's pale green eyes, but was slightly taller and more well muscled.   
Peer had more distance to cover and ran swiftly through the forest to hopefully get ahead of the animal. The elk would surely now hear the men's movement, but there was nothing to be done for it. They knew the terrain well and were confident it couldn't escape their trap...as long as Peer was right about its direction of travel, that is.  
Suddenly, there was a burst of movement to his right, the direction they had come from. The elk must have backtracked slightly and they had inadvertently gone past it. There was nothing in that direction to contain the prey and it would easily escape if he couldn't at least wound it before it opened up the distance. In the next step, Peer effortlessly shifted his run in the direction of the commotion, leaping a fallen tree and sprinting as hard as he could. A gap in the trees appeared before him and the fleeing elk came into view. In a split second, Peer's instinct told him he may not get another clear shot and in one fluid motion, he halted his run, drew an arrow from his quiver, and released. He must have been blessed by Hircine, the God of the Hunt himself, that day, because the frantic animal turned broad side at that instant and Peer's arrow struck home, immediately felling the beast.   
His jest to his father had been accurate. He was the better marksman, but he wasn't this good. It had been a one-in-a-thousand shot, a brilliant stroke of luck, and he was grateful for it. They would be eating well tonight and the meat they couldn’t eat would bring some good coin at the market. He made his way to the slain animal and knelt beside him. The buck was truly large with an impressive rack of horns. Peer laid his hand near the fatal wound and whispered, "Thank you."  
He retrieved his signaling horn from his pack to let his father know the deed was done and set to the task of field dressing. After a few minutes, Tyr was beside him again, assessing the kill.   
"Well done, son," he said, and then with a bit of sarcasm, "Nice shot," inferring his guess that there had been a fair bit of luck involved in the kill.  
Peer shrugged with a smile, "What can I say? I'm blessed with a fierce talent!"  
"Alright, fortunate one," Tyr mocked, "let's finish this and get to the market."  
Tyr ran back to the edge of the forest where the two men had left their horse. By the time he returned, Peer had quartered the animal and they loaded it all onto the horse and started the hike to Water’s Edge.  
Water’s Edge was not home, of course, for Peer had been born, quite literally, on the road. His parents had made a life traveling and trading. They lived off the land, gathering resources for the goods they sold as they went. For the most part, they stayed away from the larger cities and instead traded in the smaller towns of Cyrodiil's countryside. They had a pretty talented band, capable of producing a wide variety of valuable goods. His mother, Igna, was a leathersmith, turning the hides of the animals they hunted into armor, cloaks, boots, and even saddles. Uras, a Redguard man, was a master smith, making the finest weapons and armor. Although the Redguard's almost ebony black skin and thick accent would preclude any outsider from thinking they were related, Peer considered the man family. Peer had no memories of life without Uras. He emigrated from Hammerfell when Peer was a baby and joined them on the road shortly thereafter. Somewhere along the line they had acquired a second wagon which they converted to a portable forge of sorts. It carried twenty large stone blocks, a bellows, anvil, and a complete set of smithing tools. Most towns had a place for merchant caravans to camp and they’d use the blocks to build the forge’s fire pit, creating a temporary workshop there. Tyr and Peer spent most of their time hunting. It provided the skins for Igna's leatherwork, fed the family, and always produced enough extra meat to sell as well.   
It was a good life and Peer enjoyed seeing new places, meeting new people, and learning new things. Travel was an education itself and his parents and Uras were excellent teachers besides. There was so much to learn and Peer was a quick study.   
He enjoyed working with Uras at their temporary forge whenever he could. The heat filled him with inspiration and molding the metal into weapons and armor provided him a sense of accomplishment. Of course, what he enjoyed even more than crafting a sword was swinging it! Most evenings, when the day’s work was done and dinner was on the fire, they would spar. Each of the three elders had lessons to teach in the art of battle and Peer absorbed it all with a hunger and focus not common to youth. Igna was a loving mother to be sure, but every bit as fierce as any Nord warrior. Her preferred fighting style was with shield and axe and she had taught him everything she knew. Uras lived up to the Redguard reputation for being legendary warriors. He wielded all manner of blades with formidable ferocity and precision. Tyr was an expert swordsman as well, with a more blunt and aggressive style, but nearly Uras' equal.  
“Go see what you can get for the extra meat,” his father said as they tethered the horse and entered the market. “Uras needs a few more steel ingots, so I’ll barter with the town smith and we’ll meet at the square.” Tyr always made a point to hear the news from the town reader at the square. He was particularly interested in the latest on the increasing tensions in his home country of Skyrim. The Great War fought between the Empire and the Altmer of the Summerset Isles had ended before Peer was born, but its impacts were still being felt today and the Empire was weaker because of it. To end the war, the Emperor had signed the White Gold Concordant, a peace treaty that many of the Empire’s citizens thought favored the elves a bit too much. The most controversial of concessions the Emperor agreed to was banning the worship of Talos, the most revered hero-god of mankind.   
As a mortal man, Tiber Septim had been the greatest conqueror in history, uniting all of Tamriel under his rule and ushering in the Septim dynasty, which lasted for over 400 years. So great were his deeds, that upon his death, he ascended to god-hood and became the 9th divine known as Talos, the name given him by the Nords. The high elves were having none of that. The last nation Tiber had conquered had been the Summerset Isles. The stories told of great devastation as Tiber wielded the Brass Tower, a thousand-foot tall automaton built by the ancient Dwemer, laying waste to the great elven cities in a single day. Many of the extremely long lived Altmer that had witnessed this utter defeat at the hands of a human, were still alive and had been seeking revenge ever since. When finally they had the strategic strength to do so, they sought to force mankind to abandon this man turned god.   
Talos worshippers all across Tamriel had raised an uproar in protest, but in Skyrim, where Talos was the most celebrated of all heroes, the Nords had rebelled. The country was now split between those kingdoms that remained loyal to the Empire and its laws, and those that believed Skyrim was now better off standing on its own. Tyr and Igna had been quite upset hearing how their country teetered on the brink of civil war. When Peer had asked which side they thought was in the right, Tyr had merely responded, “It’s not that simple,” and refused to talk about it any further.   
The market was crowded today, mostly with the country’s Imperial natives, but all the other Tamrielic races were represented to some extent. Peer worked his way through the crowd and haggled with several vendors before settling on a good price for the elk meat. Coin in hand, he made his way back to the square to meet his father. As he approached, he saw Tyr among those listening to the news reader already in progress.  
“…was murdered by Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the rebellion. The traitor Stormcloak came to the High King’s court in Solitude under banner of peace and struck him apart with the power of his voice…”  
“What’s happened, father?” Peer whispered as he took up position at Tyr’s side.   
“Ulfric has killed High King Torygg!” Tyr looked aghast.  
“After killing his rightful king,” the reader continued, “the rebel scum escaped the capital and fled back to Windhelm. Emperor Titus Mede has declared Jarl Ulfric a traitor to not only Skyrim, but the Empire itself!”  
Tyr pestered the reader for further information, but there was none to be had, so they started to make their way back to the camp. Tyr seemed despondent so, despite having many questions, Peer just let them walk in silence. He had spent his entire life on the road in Cyrodiil and although his parents had instilled a deep Nordic pride in him, Skyrim had always seemed foreign. It was difficult to imagine a country he had never seen as his homeland, but his parents had grown up there and it was only service in the Legion that had brought them to Cyrodiil. Although they had stayed after the war, they still loved their country and didn’t want to see it in turmoil.  
Tyr paused at a vegetable stand, perusing the produce, and Peer took the opportunity to try to lighten his mood. “Please tell me you’re planning to make your venison stew for dinner. I’m famished!”   
Without looking at Peer, Tyr spoke evenly, “I need you to trust me and do exactly as I say. This is not a test. This is real and we are in danger. Do you understand?”  
Tyr was a hard man when necessary, but Peer had inherited his mischievous, cavalier side from his father and that’s how he mostly was. Hearing Tyr serious and focused made him uneasy, but he knew his duty. “Yes, father.”  
“Be casual when you look. Don’t let your eyes linger. The high elf by the jeweler’s stand.”  
Peer remembered the childhood spy games his father had played with him when they entered a new town. He’d concoct an elaborate plot by Aldmeri Dominion agents to infiltrate the town and give Peer the mission of finding them. He taught Peer to observe without drawing attention to himself, all the while looking for things that seemed out of place. The jeweler’s stand was on a cross street, not directly in line of site, but just around the corner of the nearest building. Peer stepped to the side and pretended to look around casually, identifying the Altmer his father was referring to. He had a modest linen cloak with the hood drawn and was just leaning on a lantern post, eyeing the market crowd. With the hood shading his face and the cloak covering most everything else, there wasn’t much detail to be had and Peer wasn’t sure what cause for concern there was. His father, like most Great War veterans, was understandably prejudiced against Altmer, but it was the radical Thalmor faction among them that had seized control of their government and waged war on the human races. There were just as many Altmer that fled Thalmor control and made new homes in the other countries of Tamriel. Peer made another casual glance in the elf’s direction and saw what he had missed the first time.  
“His boots.” Although the boots were covered with the same mud and dust on the footwear of most market goers, they were undeniably of fine elven quality. The meager cloak didn’t match the wealth conveyed by the boots, but that hardly seemed to warrant Tyr’s suspicion. Peer thought him paranoid.   
“He’s looking for me,” Tyr said.  
“Why would…” Peer started, but was interrupted.  
“Listen to me,” Tyr hissed intently. “We don’t have time for me to explain it to you. You need to get back to the camp and tell mother and Uras that Thalmor are here. They’ll know what to do. I’m going to lead the elf away and join you later. Go.” Tyr moved away around the corner without another word, leaving Peer bewildered and confused. The Thalmor? What would they want with his father? Regardless, his instructions were clear and he was serious about it. Peer hurried down the street towards the camp on the edge of town, glancing briefly in the direction the elf had been. Tyr walked past him and the elf turned to follow. It was no coincidence and Peer realized his father’s concern was justified, even though he didn’t understand why.  
As he approached the merchant camp, a terrifying scene greeted him. His mother stood before five Altmer, one of them dressed in ornate robes and the others covered head to toe in gleaming glass armor. Igna appeared to be arguing with the robed elf and none of the other traveling merchants were present, apparently wanting no part of whatever drama the band of elves was like to bring. Peer froze, not knowing what to do. This was clearly the danger Tyr had been worried about, but his father had not anticipated this. He ducked behind a wagon to stay out of sight.  
The robed elf took a step toward Igna and she shouted, “No! You have no authority here. We have done nothing wrong.”  
“As I said, your husband is a reported Talos worshipper and Thalmor agents are authorized under the terms of the White Gold Concordant to conduct enforcement actions on Empire lands.” His voice was rich with the air of arrogance and superiority. “He must submit for questioning in this matter. Now, if you don’t tell me where he is, I must assume you are obstructing our lawful investigation and arrest you as well.”  
Tyr was not a deeply religious man, so Peer had no idea where this accusation was coming from. He had heard of similar incidents in recent years where Thalmor had arrested Talos worshippers. Peer hadn’t felt much need to worship any of the divines, but he felt all people should be free to pray as they wished. Banning Talos worship was bad enough, but the idea that a foreign government could send their own agents into Imperial countries to enforce it was outrageous. Peer wished his father was here, so he’d know what to do. There was no sign of Uras either. Maybe he should run back toward town and get some guards. Even if this was technically lawful, the locals might not take kindly to Thalmor operating in their jurisdiction and be more sympathetic. He wasn’t sure he could go and get back before this conflict was resolved though. If they took her, he wanted to be able to follow.  
“As I said, my husband and son left this morning on an extended hunt into the wilderness and will not be back for a week,” Igna lied. “I suggest you come back then.”  
“I’m afraid not. You’ll just have to come with us until your husband returns.”   
“I will not,” Igna said forcefully, pulling her axe from her belt. “These charges are baseless and I will not submit to your custody. Now leave me in peace.”   
“My patience wanes,” said the elf. He raised a hand and Igna fell slowly forward, her body frozen perfectly still as if she was a statue. Unable to move and catch herself, she hit the ground face first. “Bind her,” the elf ordered and two of the accompanying armored soldiers stepped forward, pulling some cord from their pouches. Peer had to do something!  
“Hey!” he yelled, jumping out from behind the wagon, sword drawn. “Get away from her!”  
The Thalmor all turned in his direction.   
“Ah, you must be the son,” the leader remarked. “Not such an extended hunting trip after all.” Peer was surprised when the smirk on the elf’s face was suddenly replaced by shock as an arrow appeared in his chest and he fell to the ground. Uras appeared to his right from behind another wagon, bow in hand and another arrow already nocked. One of the first combat maxims Uras had taught him sprang to mind - always kill the mage first. Uras let loose his second shot and the arrow found a joint in one of the soldier’s armor, sending him down on one knee. The other three already had weapons drawn and two of them were moving towards Uras and the third advanced on Peer.  
The oncoming elf lunged his blade straight for Peer’s chest and he barely got his blade up in time to parry, side-stepping and slashing back, but his blade skidded harmlessly across the Thalmor’s armor. The elf came at him again, swinging in well-timed combinations. Peer retreated as the elf advanced, dodging each swing until the elf finally seemed to over extend his reach. Peer side-stepped and swiped at the elf’s neck, cutting deep and sending him to the ground, hopelessly clutching the gushing fatal wound.   
Igna was still on the ground, but Uras, who had dropped his bow in favor of his scimitar and a dagger was trading blows with the two elves that had advanced on him. Peer started in that direction to lend aid, but the third warrior who had taken an arrow from Uras stood, ripped the arrow from his body, drew his saber, and cast magic with his off hand. Swirling ribbons of golden light surrounded him, a healing spell Peer realized. Reinvigorated, the warrior intercepted Peer and their blades clashed. This elf was very tall, even for an Altmer, and Peer struggled with his reach advantage. He had to continually back step to avoid his opponent’s swings and found himself not close enough for a counter attack. Peer realized he was being backed up to a wagon and would not be able to avoid the next swing. The elf knew his victory was imminent, a near smile appearing on his face. The celebration was premature though, evidenced by the sudden appearance of an axe in the side of his neck. His body fell, revealing Igna as the slayer.   
“Uras,” she said intently as she dislodged her axe from the dead elf. Peer turned his attention to the Redguard, his continued fight against the two Thalmor having carried him a considerable way into a neighboring field. Peer and Igna both broke into a run to close the distance. As they ran, his father appeared from the opposite direction, also sprinting toward the melee. Peer was relieved to see his father had either eluded his follower or killed him. They had overcome the odds against them so far and now outnumbered the remaining Thalmor, but he could tell from Uras’ movements that the prolonged defense against two attackers was taking its toll and he was obviously injured. Peer worried they couldn’t reach him before his stamina was depleted. Peer pushed hard, leaving his mother to trail as he raced to Uras. The elves were working well together, probing Uras’ weaknesses, but the veteran Redguard had few, and with a blade in each hand he was formidable. A gap in the duo’s coordinated attacks finally gave Uras the opportunity that had so far eluded him. He ducked under a swing and drove his dagger into an opponent’s armpit, dropping him to the dirt, gasping for air through his pierced lung.   
For the briefest of moments, Peer’s spirit flew. Victory was at hand, with all of them still alive, and a single Thalmor warrior left. Both Peer and Tyr were almost there. But then without explanation, his muscles stopped working, and his body, limp as a rag doll, tumbled like a heap as his momentum rolled him through the grass. He came to rest on his side in full view of Uras and his father, also on the ground. The remaining Thalmor was still on his feet. Stepping over Uras’ motionless form and with both hands, he drove his sword down into Uras’ chest. Paralyzed, Peer couldn’t scream.   
“Well, that was terribly upsetting,” came an icy voice behind him, from the direction of the camp. “I’ll be needing an entirely new squad of hunters now.” Peer recognized the voice. The mage had survived Uras’ first strike, probably healed himself during the distraction of battle, and had now immobilized them all. “Tyr, legendary Blade. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.” What was he was talking about? The Blades, the elite Emperor’s guard and intelligence service, had been disbanded over 25 years ago as part of the terms of the White Gold Concordant. Tyr always told Peer stories of the Blades’ known exploits, but he had served in the Imperial Legion, not the Blades. “Sit him up, so he can see his doom,” the mage ordered the soldier, who complied by pulling Tyr up on his butt and propping his torso against the elf’s legs. His head sagged lazily, but his eyes burned with intensity. Peer told his limbs to move but to no avail.  
“The discovery and subsequent destruction of our Bruma operation at your hands caused quite a delay in achieving our objectives in that region. My brother was the lead agent there, you see, so I took a special interest in the Blades responsible. I doubt you realized you left him alive. Despite our healers’ proficiency, he couldn’t be saved. His wounds were most grievous. Still, it took quite some time for him to die.” Peer strained continually to move a muscle, any muscle, but couldn’t do anything but blink. The mage was still to his back, out of view and, he realized, so was his mother.  
“When you were apprehended,” the elf continued, “I was quite content in the knowledge that you would suffer in the arena, fighting your own kind, before eventually meeting some bloody end. You can imagine my disappointment when you escaped. I never gave up looking and always wondered what you had been doing all these years. I admit I hadn't pegged you for a family man. Not surprising though that you chose a shield maiden to breed with.” Peer heard a gushing sound and felt the warmth of fire on his back. His father’s eyes shook with pain and rage, the tears streaming down his cheeks revealing the horror Peer couldn’t see. “Mother!” he silently screamed. At long last, the cascading heat ceased and the mage stepped into view near Peer’s feet.  
“It was quite clever to live as a nomad. Always moving, never getting too close to anyone that might eventually uncover your past. It presents quite the challenge to our diviners.” He extended a hand towards Peer, emitting a stream of lightning into his body. Every muscle in his body quivered in inexorable pain. The mage paused the torture and continued his monologue. “It was the letter to Skyrim, you must know. I’m sure you knew better, of course, the physical manifestation of the word on paper vulnerable to interception by a variety of means.” Another arc of lightning and another searing jolt of pain. Peer looked at his father again, now through his own tears. This was their end Peer realized. That they would die not on their feet with blade in hand, but instead helplessly paralyzed was infuriating.  
“I’m glad we had the opportunity for this little talk, so you’ll die knowing that not only did your recklessness seal the fate of your wife and son, but that you’ve confirmed for us the presence of your colleague in Skyrim. It’s only a matter of time before we find her.” Lightning again struck Peer, this time with an intensity that revealed the previous shocks as mere prelude. Peer’s teeth chattered and his entire body convulsed violently. The agony was absolute and seemed boundless in measure. He wished for death, for eternal damnation in Oblivion, anything to stop this pain. Then suddenly his prayers were answered as the onslaught ceased. He blinked clear his eyes, refocusing on a much changed scene. His father now on his feet, the Thalmor warrior guarding him now on the ground and scrambling to get up, and the mage on a knee, clutching Tyr’s boot dagger, now protruding from his chest. Tyr drew his sword and hurried to finish the mage before he could rally. Behind him, the warrior recovered and gave chase.   
“Watch out!” Peer yelled. He thrust his hand out to point at the approaching warrior and was surprised to find he could speak and move again, albeit with significant difficulty. The spell was broken, but his injuries severe. His warning came too late. Tyr whirled to face the threat and took the elf’s saber straight through the chest. “No!” Peer cried. Tyr grabbed the elf by the back of the neck and drove his own blade up under the elf’s chest plate, the two frozen for a few seconds in death’s embrace before falling to the grass.  
Despite the captivating horror, his attention was drawn to the mage’s movement, as he pulled the dagger from his chest. The elf spit blood, doubling over in coughing spasm. He raised a hand and cast the same healing magic Peer had seen the other warrior use. Every muscle ached and residual tremors of the shock magic racked Peer’s body, but he moved through it, all the pain and rage he felt finding purpose in this one act. He would kill this elf before the darkness took him. He drew his dagger and crawled onto the wounded mage, pinning him to the ground, and savagely stabbing him over and over. When his arms were exhausted and the elf’s chest was thoroughly ruined, he crawled to his mother’s burnt and still smoldering corpse and wept. His breath was shallow, his limbs numb, and his head pounded. His entire world had been destroyed this day and all that was left was utter despair, but he took small relief in the expectation that he would soon die.  
“Peer,” came a feeble croak.  
“Father!” Peer realized. His father was still alive! With his last reserve of strength, he crawled to Tyr’s side. “Father,” was all he could say as he continued to weep. “The elf’s pouch,” Tyr sputtered through a blood-filled mouth. Peer looked to the dead warrior laying beside them and saw the pouch on his belt. He opened the flap and retrieved the contents which included several vials of liquid. Potions. Tyr’s lessons on military matters had been among Peer’s favorite, so he knew it was fairly common for Legionnaires to carry potions so they could rejuvenate or heal themselves during or after battle. It made sense the Dominion’s soldiers would do likewise. The labels were written in Elvish, but the words were similar enough to Cyrodilic that he was able to identify the healing potion easily enough. He fumbled with numb and trembling fingers to remove the stopper and went to pour it into his father’s mouth.  
“No,” Tyr said, grabbing Peer’s wrist. “Cannot be saved…you…you take.”  
“Father, no,” Peer protested.  
“Bruma…remember Bruma,” Tyr gasped. “I…love you…son.” Tyr expelled one last breath and died.  
Peer downed the healing potion and laid his head on Tyr’s chest, weeping until his eyes ran dry.


End file.
